


til there's nothing left

by gyruum



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Breathplay, Crying, F/F, Face Slapping, Light Masochism, No Aftercare, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyruum/pseuds/gyruum
Summary: Sparia angst and fucking up their friendship with sex, because it hurts so good.Inspired by the achingly beautifulfalling right backby IncognitoDuck11
Relationships: Spencer Hastings/Aria Montgomery
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	til there's nothing left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IncognitoDuck11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncognitoDuck11/gifts).



(8:56 PM) **_I need you_**

Spencer’s sitting on her bed, knees bent to prop up her elbows, and with them, the full weight of her head in her hands. The phone is cast aside; she doesn’t need to read Aria’s text again. She’s seen the words many times before, each one harder than the last.

 ** _Fuck you_** , she wants to reply, but she doesn’t.

 _Fuck you, Aria_.

_Fuck you for doing this to me. And fuck you for making me do this to you._

A muscle tightens around the pit in her stomach—empty, but with room for nothing—and Spencer clenches her teeth against the rising swell of anger. This isn't who she wants to be. But it's too late for that now.

She presses her palms harder against her eyelids, trying to block everything out, but it only forces the memories to the surface. Visions of past stormy nights cut through the black as her mind replays the scene over and over and over. It’s always the same, but it extends further, longer, darker with each iteration. The things Aria wants. The things Spencer does. The mutual and ever-increasing tolerance for damage, not just to Aria's body but to their friendship. Spencer wants to believe that as one grows weaker, the other grows stronger, if only so she can justify what they've done. She wants to believe it.

But she doesn't.

She had a reason once. That Thursday night three weeks ago when Spencer first received the innocent three words, like a common S.O.S. How special she felt that Aria had chosen _her_ over the others. That Spencer alone must possess the skill set or emotional salve for her woes. And through the power of her words and the comfort of her presence, she could battle Aria’s demons and be her hero. She could do good; she could help pull her friend back off the ledge of darkness. 

Spencer could save her.

_What a fucking idiot._

**********

The first night, it took eight and a half minutes for Spencer to get from her bedroom to Aria’s door—eight and a half minutes of Aria alone on the floor, sobbing until she couldn’t breathe or speak. She was broken. Dropped and shattered into shards that would never fit back together without deep scars. This level of hurt was permanent. By the time Spencer reached her, there was hardly anything left of Aria’s makeup, or hope, or self-worth. She laid there quietly shaking, eyes glazed over and staring into some abyss miles away, unrecognizably empty. Spencer was already too late.

This was clearly Ezra’s doing; Spencer didn't waste a breath asking. Their weakened bond must have finally snapped under its own weight, too heavy with guilt and shame and bitterness from the unchangeable circumstances of their situation. And now Aria had taken it all into herself, a raging storm of blame and fault, and it consumed her. 

“Hey,” Spencer rushed in, taking Aria into her arms. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m here.”

The contact pieced her protective walls, making it real, and Aria resumed crying—harder now, and her body shook as she buried her face in Spencer’s neck. Spencer wrapped her long arms around Aria's body and held her close, but Aria dug her fingers into Spencer’s back as if to keep from being dragged further into hell. Spencer squeezed tighter, protectively, refusing to let her go, and Aria gripped harder, pressed deeper, cried louder. 

Spencer didn't realize then what she knew now—there was no saving to be done. Aria was already in hell. Now she was bringing Spencer down with her.

“I’ve got you,” Spencer said into her ear. “I’m not letting go. I’ve got you.”

And as the message settled in, Aria’s fingers relaxed, sliding up Spencer’s back to her beautiful hair, taking hold to tilt downward and help Aria’s mouth find hers. It was unexpected but not unwelcome, and Spencer leaned hard into the kiss, opening up to let Aria in as deeply as she needed to go, to the very core of Spencer’s soul if necessary.

Aria could have it all. Spencer wanted her to.

It’s why her body slid so easily into position when Aria lowered herself to the floor again, pulling Spencer on top of her and using the taller frame to block out all the light—and pain, and truth—in the room. Aria wanted Spencer to crush the caring right out of her, to bury her alive so there’d be nothing left for Ezra fucking Fitz to mourn (or anyone, else for that matter). She just wanted it all to stop.

Her pain couldn’t destroy her if Spencer destroyed her first.

So, Aria withdrew her nails from Spencer’s hair and unbuttoned her own jeans, harshly taking Spencer’s hand and pushing it where it needed to be.

Spencer knew this wouldn't fix anything, not really. Aria was weak and vulnerable and not herself, far from it. Making Spencer touch her like this wouldn't bring Ezra back. It wouldn't repair her heart. It wouldn't change anything that needed to change. But it could make her feel something other than aching despair and rejection, so Spencer didn't pull away. 

Aria kept her hand on top, pressing Spencer’s further down to display the force desired, barely leaving any room for Spencer to move. This was not a time for softness or delicate gestures. If one anchor in her life had let go, she needed another to hold her down twice as hard. Aria only released her grip when she trusted Spencer wouldn’t, and Spencer mirrored the pressure accordingly, wanting to give Aria everything she needed. Because that's what friends do.

Spencer pressed and held and loved and brought Aria to the brink of feeling something good again, even just for a few seconds. And afterward, Spencer took Aria into her arms once more and stroked her hair until the demons faded away and the healing waves of sleep pulled her under once and for all. There was gentleness and care, _love_ even, and despite the firm hold Aria wanted, Spencer acted with an intentional aversion of Aria's sharp edges and most fragile parts, so as to not break her further. And an hour later Spencer quietly closed Aria's door behind her, feeling confident she had helped in the hour Aria needed her most.

Yes, Spencer had saved her, at least in her own mind. And it felt _good_ , despite the strange direction their friendship had taken. She could justify it then. She had a reason. Aria needed her love.

That’s how it started.

It wasn’t until their fourth encounter that Spencer truly understood what was happening, what _had_ been happening the whole time—how the pieces fit together and the role she was to play. Most importantly, that it _was_ just a role. It wasn’t real, and it certainly wasn't love. Not to Aria. The next day at school, they would always pretend things were normal, when really they were anything but. 

You can’t just pretend that someone didn’t fuck you.

And that’s what Aria wanted—to pretend. And she wanted Spencer to fuck her.

Not just to touch her, to pleasure her or satisfy her, but to _fuck her_.

To leave a mark. To make it hurt. To make it final. To leave her worse off than she had been.

The second night, Aria moved Spencer's hands in new ways, finding new places for Spencer to squeeze life out of her and make space for darkness. Aria muttered brief phrases of strange requests, things that Spencer never thought she'd hear—or do—in the context of intimacy. She felt the encounter drifting and straying in an unfamiliar direction, beyond the limits of what she knew passion to be. Their touches didn't feel caring anymore. The kisses were forceful, even angry, and more and more Aria opted to use her teeth to bite at Spencer's lip, unafraid to draw blood, as if to make clear her intentions: She wanted a fight, and Spencer wouldn't get close enough to love her. Dutifully, Spencer followed suit and retaliated, meeting Aria's force with her own in kind, then again to reassert control, and once more to make sure it stung, righteously, so Aria wouldn't ask for it again.

And Aria thanked her.

By the third time, Spencer knew what Aria wanted, and how. She hadn't found Aria's limits yet but it was clear she was supposed to keep trying. She knew they wouldn’t talk first, or after; Aria didn't say much to her at all anymore, here or otherwise. But Spencer couldn't fault her much for that. Not after Spencer had seen her at her worst and then dug her fingers in to rip the wounds open further.

She knew Aria would keep her eyes closed the whole time, leaking tears onto the floor in small puddles that smeared when Spencer held her cheek against the cold floor. She knew now that Aria liked hard pressure and a swift back-and-forth motion more than the circles Spencer preferred. She knew Aria liked to fight against her hand, not in protest of Spencer fucking her, but as a testament of her own guilt. Aria wasn’t supposed to want this, wasn’t supposed to _do_ this.

She wasn’t supposed to use her best friend to give her what her boyfriend couldn’t.

**_I need you_ **

Spencer knew all these things, knew how royally messed up this was, knew she must be doing more damage than good and still gave it to her, willingly and eagerly, even though it absolutely tore her up inside. She gave Aria what she needed because that’s what best friends do. She fucked Aria—roughly, violently—because it was better that Spencer did it than a stranger. And much better her than a man. At least this way, Spencer knew where Aria was and that she was safe.

Well, relatively.

That third night, when Aria sobbed so hard she couldn’t kiss anymore, Spencer pulled away and placed a hand on Aria’s mouth while her other continued its work between her thighs. Spencer held her grip firmly against Aria's lips as she tried to bite her way out. Nothing would escape through her fingers, no lies or truths or promises or blood, not even a gasping breath. 

Spencer watched her struggle, fighting to breathe through swollen airways, and held a blank expression, cold and calculating. If Aria didn't want love, Spencer could withhold it.

“Cry,” she said.

And Aria did.

Laboriously, Spencer fucked her while the pent up wails and words fought against Spencer’s hand, until Aria finally took hold of her wrist and moved it away, gasping to regain equilibrium. Spencer gave no resistance; she wasn't really in charge here, they both knew that. 

Aria slid the hand down onto her chest, merely an inch south of her voice box, where Spencer found a hard collarbone to rest upon. Again she applied pressure, pinning Aria to the ground, and leaned with the full force of her weight when Aria struggled as if to play her own part—someone who didn't want to be so weak and overpowered, so helpless and defeated—until the resistance ceased. The side of her thumb danced precariously close to the softness of Aria’s throat, so vulnerable and exposed, so easily crushed. 

But Spencer didn’t need to actually choke her to drain the light from her eyes. Aria had already done that herself.

Desperately, Aria pressed her hands on top of each of Spencer’s, craving force, _pleading_ for it. She needed to be punished; it didn’t matter what for. The worse she felt, the more she made Spencer push, and the deeper she fell into the abyss. She couldn’t climb out, not like this, not with Spencer holding her down in it, but she couldn't stop. Nor did she want to. If they stopped, Aria would have to actually face her problems. She needed Spencer to keep going. She needed Spencer to pull every last ounce of life out of her with her bare hands and leave nothing behind, in that way that only Spencer could.

Ezra had made love to her, but he could never make her come.

Spencer _fucked_ Aria, and each orgasm left her wanting more.

And Spencer knew this.

She knew how much Aria hated having to finish herself off after Ezra rolled back to his side of the bed. She knew how Aria’s breathing hitched when her head tilted back right before she came, mouth open and wet with salt. She knew she could make Aria come at least three times if she maintained her momentum, and that Aria didn’t want respite anyway. She knew Aria wanted it to hurt.

Spencer’s shoulder ached from the angle and the strength it took to maintain her speed, but she continued on, working tirelessly in silence, until she saw Aria’s lips slowly part and knew her second orgasm was near. Spencer pressed down harder on Aria’s chest, not allowing her back to arch in response, and focused on her two-fingered movements and her unforgiving pace.

The stabbing pain in her forearm kept Spencer firmly in the moment, lest she mistake any of this task for pleasure. She wanted to make Aria come, yes, over and over and over until they both would collapse, beautifully spent. But not like this, not ever like this. And yet. She maintained her pace.

The more Aria liked it, the more Spencer hated it.

And then at the moment she saw pleasure creep across Aria’s tear-soaked face once more, as Aria’s lungs held in just enough air to survive the explosion without scaring it away, Spencer released her right hand, killing the rush at its peak, spitefully. 

Aria gasped in protest, eyes clenched tightly shut as if she could will the fading sensation back, but just as quickly Spencer struck her hard across the cheek with an open hand. Aria cried out in pain, turning away instinctively, but Spencer had her pinned so tightly she could hardly move, much less escape. 

“Is that what you want?” Spencer hissed as her anger took over. "Is it?!" And she slapped Aria a second time, stronger. _"Slut!"_ Her voice was thick with disdain, spraying sweat and vitriol as she moved. Maybe she was still acting, or maybe that ended weeks ago.

Immediately, Spencer found Aria’s clit again and resumed her motions at an increased tempo, forcefully. She didn’t know if the skin was too raw or if her actions were bringing any pleasure anymore, and she didn’t care. This is what Aria wanted. Unrelenting, cruel, unforgiving. This is what Spencer came here to do. 

Aria whimpered, tears streaming faster now, as she nodded vigorously at Spencer’s assessment of her, approving of her methods. She liked it; of course she did. Her breathing was ragged and unsteady, and her fists clenched at her sides as her body squirmed. 

“I can’t…” Aria said—her first words of the evening, and of course, another fucking lie.

But she wasn’t revoking consent. Spencer knew it meant to keep going. If Aria didn’t think she was capable of coming a third time, then she should be worked until she bled trying.

Spencer let go and struck her once more. “Shut up!” The break in her momentum would only make it harder for Aria to get there. Spencer knew exactly what she was doing. So, of course, Aria did too. 

After all, they were best friends. 

_Were._

Now, Spencer didn’t know what the fuck they were. But she could keep being _this_ as long as her muscles allowed.

Minutes passed, endless, with only the sounds of Aria’s erratic sobs serving as counterpoint to the steady rhythm between her legs. Spencer felt Aria’s chest muscles tighten under her hand as the pace of her breathing quickened. Whimpering, Aria’s chin angled back and her closed eyes squeezed tighter, willing it to happen, _begging_ it to happen. She brought her fists to her eyes and blocked out everything standing in her way, faces and images and promises broken, then took a final breath and let herself succumb to her consequence.

Watching the rush make its way up Aria’s body, Spencer kept her steady pace this time. This one, she would let Aria have, but at a price. She released the hold on Aria’s collarbone, instead clamping down hard to her nose and mouth. Aria bucked, now free to move her body, and her back arched sharply as the orgasm coursed through her. She tried to shake off the suffocating hand, jerking left and back again, but failed. Spencer watched her fight, stone-faced and bitter, and still pulling Aria through the wave with obedient fingers. Only when Aria’s body relaxed in release did Spencer withdraw the muzzle and slow her movements to a sudden stop.

Without another word—be it comfort or judgment—and without hesitation, Spencer Hastings stood on weakened knees and left, pulling the door closed behind her. The tears started before she reached the car, but she didn't push them away. Something had to wash this anger from her eyes, or she would never see Aria the same way again.

She didn’t let herself wonder how long Aria stayed on the floor after she left, or if Aria had any tears left to shed or peaceful slumber in the hours ahead. She couldn't, not now. Spencer had to use what little strength remained to keep herself standing and, eventually, start to heal herself. She had given Aria more than she wanted to, more than she thought she had to spare. And Aria took it, because she could, and because Spencer let her. 

_"Hurt me,"_ Aria had said that first night. _"Please, Spencer."_

Spencer had loved her too much to say yes, but wanted her too much to say no, and that's the piece of her that won. She could've walked away. She had her fucking chance. She could've saved them both.

And now, there was nothing good left between them.

And she _hated_ it with every burning fiber of her being. Aria would never love her the way she wanted, never hover inches from Spencer’s face, looking into each other’s eyes as they made love, the way Ezra had surely done to her. Aria would never again see her as the trusted confidante, the partner in crime, the one she could lean on when things got hard, the one she could celebrate her victories with. Aria couldn't look Spencer in the eye anymore, couldn't even say her name anymore. And Spencer hated it. She hated that Aria asked this of her, this heartless pain and violent punishment, knowing full well that Spencer—and only Spencer—would be willing and able to give it to her.

What did that say about her? Or how little Aria must think of her, to know she was capable of these sins? What kind of a fucking friend was she?

Putting her car into gear, Spencer realized that night that that’s all she was now: a fucking friend. A friend to fuck.

And most of all, in the empty pit of her gut, she hated herself for agreeing to it because, selfishly, making Aria hurt was better than never getting to touch her at all. 

This was where her selfishness had brought her. This was her fault. She let it get this far. 

But, _no_ , she decided. _Not anymore._

_Not anymore._

********

Spencer looks over at the text message one more time. It’s still taunting her. The summoning. The lie. The bait.

**_I need you_ **

The hook.

Gathering all her strength, Spencer types a reply and hits send before she can change her mind. She throws the phone across the room like it's poisoned before curling into a ball on her bed to cry. She doesn’t want to see a response, doesn’t want a conversation. She doesn't want anything from Aria anymore. She never wants to hear those words again. Not like this. Not _for_ this. Not if this is what they mean to her. Because Spencer knows now that she could never say them back and get what she wants. What she wanted. Back before Aria destroyed her and made her do unspeakable things in the name of...god, she doesn't even know anymore. Spencer lost her reason, and that makes her unforgivable.

Even if Aria could learn to love her, to really truly love her, Spencer knows now, after all she has done, that she could never deserve it.

_So, fuck you, Aria._

_Fuck your tears and your heartbreak and your pain._

_Fuck you for making me break you because you were too scared to do it yourself._

_Fuck you for knowing that I would because I’m in love with you._

_Fuck you for breaking me and not even knowing it._

_You actually think you_ need _me?_

_F_ _uck, fuck, fuck you, Aria Montgomery._

(9:07 PM) **_No. You don’t._**


End file.
